


As they say in Denmark, there are communists in the funhouse.

by shipwreckblue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe: Tim Successfully Quits the Archives, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Triad, Polyamory, Top Surgery Recovery, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Characters (Plural), top surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 13:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17561711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue
Summary: “I’d probably be okay for a few hours, you know,” Martin offers. “It’s only chest surgery, I can probably walk to the bathroom and all.”Fixing Martin with a baleful glare, Jon crosses his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re on loads of drugs, I wouldn’t trust you to drink water without a straw. Besides, I don’t have to be anywhere, I made sure.”After an operation, Martin's boyfriends help to facilitate his recovery.





	As they say in Denmark, there are communists in the funhouse.

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING for a transmasculine character getting a period, but I promise it is described as vaguely, briefly, and non-graphically as possible. The title of the fic is, in fact, a ridiculous period euphemism, but to be honest the experience is barely featured.
> 
> Someone [on tumblr](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/) asked me about my trans headcanons, and I ended up deciding to just show, not tell. Hope y'all enjoy.

“Yes, well, I’m sure that Rosie has that situation quite under control, Elias. She has my full confidence.” Jon has the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder while he helps Martin adjust his pillows. His posture is tense, annoyed, and he makes no attempt to school his tone into something more patient on his boss’ behalf. Martin hears a snatch of Elias’ steady drawl, less bored and more prickly than usual, and Jon rolls his eyes so hard before replying that for a second everything disappears but the whites.

“Certainly, I understand there has been an influx of statements lately, but I requested these days- I did, weeks in advance, if you’ll check the-” He stops, sighs, listens to something Elias is saying on the other end, straightens up and switches the phone decisively to his other side. “I’m afraid there is simply no way I’m going to make it into the archives before next week, Elias, so I suggest you adjust your schedule accordingly. Talk to Sasha. Yes, have a good afternoon.”  
  
“What’s the deal?” Martin asks once he’s hung up, settling gingerly into his new upright position.  
  
Jon pushes his glasses up irritably. “Apparently Elias doesn’t know how to read. Don’t worry about it, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“I’d probably be okay for a few hours, you know,” Martin offers. “It’s only chest surgery, I can probably walk to the bathroom and all.”

Fixing Martin with a baleful glare, Jon crosses his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re on loads of drugs, I wouldn’t trust you to drink water without a straw. Besides, I don’t have to be anywhere, I made sure.”  
  
“If you say so. But Tim could just come home early, he said-”

“We have _discussed_ this. The company wouldn’t ask him to go in unless it’s important, and- Anyway, I wouldn’t exactly be productive, even if he was home with you.”  
  
Martin smiles softly at him. “All right. Are you, you know, doing okay with this?”  
  
“What? Of course I am.” Jon turns away and busies himself with rearranging the pill bottles on the nightstand. “Why wouldn’t I be.”  
  
Martin watches him with concern, the jerky way his hands move. He sighs. “Well, Tim may have let on that you were… Strung out, the other day, while I was having the operation. Said you stayed on the phone with him nearly the whole time.”

“Did he now.” Jon narrows his eyes at a little container of Percocet. “And what else might he have said, the rotten snitch.”  
  
Martin reaches out and lays a hand on Jon’s wrist. “It’s okay if this stresses you out. I get it, you know, with your mum and all.”  
  
“I don’t have some sort of deep-seated trauma relative to surgery because of my mother, Martin. She didn’t even die during the procedure. It was days afterward. Some kind of infection.” Clearly, he is trying to sound blasé about the whole business, but Jon has never been the best actor.

Martin brushes his thumb across Jon’s pulse point. “You never mentioned that.”  
  
“No, I don’t suppose I found it relevant.” Catching the look on Martin’s face, Jon laces their fingers together. “Listen, it’s fine. I’ll admit I may have had... a few bad hospital experiences, but, well, someone had to stay home and get the flat ready, didn’t they?”  
  
“And you did a lovely job.” Martin gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I just wanted to check in, you know?”  
  
“That is kind of your thing, isn’t it.” Jon reaches out to brush a few strands of fringe out of Martin’s face, and then glances at the clock. “Speaking of checking in, it’s getting on about nine. How’re you feeling?”  
  
Experimentally, Martin tries shifting himself more vertical and then grunts at the tugging sensation on his chest, followed by a deep and blooming ache. “Bit sore,” he says through his teeth.  
  
“I thought so. Would you like some more water with these copious amounts of drugs?”  
  
Martin snorts, even though the pain hasn’t fully ebbed away yet. “That’d be nice, love.”  
  
“Two seconds.” He picks up Martin’s cup from the nightstand and moves toward the bathroom. Martin watches him fondly for a moment, then squints, unsure of what he’s looking at.  
  
“Er, Jon?” He calls as his partner disappears through the doorway. “You’ve, ah, you’ve got red on you?”  
  
“What?” Is the response from the bathroom, and then a beat later, much more vehemently: “ _Fuck._ ”  
  
Martin cringes. “Whoof. Sorry.”  
  
“There’s no need for _you_ to be sorry,” Jon snaps, striding over the dresser and banging his underwear drawer open. “It’s not like it’s _your_ fault.”  
  
“Well, I still feel bad,” Martin offers, watching him hurry back to the bathroom at almost a jog. “No fun, that.”  
  
“Bloody right.” Jon kicks the door shut behind him, and then Martin can hear the crash and clatter of him tearing through the bathroom cabinet. “Where’s the f- Christ, of course, of _course_.”  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
Yanking the door back open, Jon throws his hands up. “We have approximately three entire tampons and nothing else. Who even- I don’t _buy_ those.”  
  
Martin rubs his chin. “Hm. You know, I’ll be damned, they must be left over from _my_ old bathroom stuff when we moved in.” He glances up. “You can’t just-?”  
  
An incredulous scoff. “Hah. No. Not happening.”  
  
“Right… Well, I hate to say it but you might have to just make do with loo paper for now.”

For a few seconds Jon just looks at him in miserable resignation, but then he straightens up. “Wait, wait, wait, no, I think- Oh, where’s my shoulder bag.”  
  
“Uhmm… Hook by the door, maybe?”  
  
Jon is already off while Martin is still thinking about it, and it’s barely a minute before he’s back and waving a sanitary towel still in its crumpled wrapper. “Thank the lord I occasionally exercise the barest minimum of foresight,” he says, and then slams the bathroom door again.  
  
While that’s being handled, Martin takes the liberty of nabbing Jon’s phone from the nightstand and shooting a quick message to Tim: _On your way home would you mind picking up a package of pants liners? Looks like the Red Scare has experienced a resurgence._ Belatedly, though, he realizes Tim is going to read this in Jon’s voice, and struggles to stop laughing before Jon gets out of the bathroom. He is not successful.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Jon has reemerged to toss his ruined joggers at the hamper, and immediately catches Martin still holding his phone. “What did you do? Martin-”  
  
Making eye contact just makes him laugh harder. “Nothing! I didn’t- _Ha_ , sorry, I just- Oh, god this hurts,” he wheezes, clutching a pillow to his chest and holding Jon’s phone out to him. “Didn’t think before I sent this…”  
  
“Christ, calm down or you’re going to split your stitches,” Jon says, but he does perch on the edge of the mattress to take the phone, and upon reading what Martin has sent, brings a hand up in front of his mouth and stares at the bedspread pointedly, clearly trying not to encourage him.  
  
Martin coughs, winces and tries to regulate his breathing. “God, I just- I realized he was going to hear it like it was from _you_ , and...”  
  
Jon looks like he’s heavily considering whether or not to say something. After a hesitant second, he asks, “Do you know what they call it in France?”  
  
Martin takes as deep a breath as his body will allow. “Call what?”  
  
“The Red Scare,” Jon explains, unable to suppress a smirk. “In France they say _les Anglais ont débarqué_.”  
  
Martin looks at him dubiously. “Which means..?”  
  
“The English have landed.”  
  
By the time Martin is done laughing at that one, he’s more than ready for a new dose of pain meds, his chest aching like his stitches really might split. Jon hands him his current cocktail of pills and he downs them one at a time, chasing liberally with water; he’s never been great at dry-swallowing, let alone taking multiple pills at once. “You’re a good nurse,” he croaks once he’s finished with them.  
  
“No I’m not. I’m terrible, I probably made you tear something a minute ago.” Jon shakes his head. “Completely reckless. Also I’m about to steal your medication and bogart the hot pad.”  
  
Martin raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”  
  
Jon shrugs and pops the lid on a bottle of acetaminophen. “Are you really in a position to stop me?”  
  
“I could make you feel really guilty about it,” Martin suggests. “But luckily I have a veritable mountain of drugs here, and I don’t really want the hot pad, so have at it- _Four_ , Jon, really?! That’ll destroy your liver.”  
  
“Listen, I know what I’m in for, this is appropriate.” He takes them all at once with the half-a-sip of water left in Martin’s cup, to Martin’s total awe. “If I did that I’d choke to death,” he says, impressed.  
  
Jon pats his thigh. “Please try to avoid it. You’ve only been out of hospital a day or so.”  
  
“I’ll do my best to stay out if you do. Four? Christ, you should’ve just taken one of the prescription grade.”

“Good lord, no, then I could hardly look after you. That stuff will knock me flat.”  
  
“Well I suppose that’s fair.” Martin heaves a sigh. “Sorry that you hurt too. I haven’t had to deal with it in years, but I remember the… God, it feels like swords going through you, doesn’t it.”  
  
“Not too far off.” Jon grimaces. “Although I remember having to give myself shots every week and that wasn’t exactly ideal either.”  
  
“Why’d you have to stop again?” The percocets are working, or at least the idea of them is, and Martin is starting to feel a bit fuzzy.  
  
“Because my reproductive system decided it felt like growing a bunch of tiny organic bombs.”  
  
“Oh, right. God, that’s stupid. It’s unfair.”  
  
“A bit, but I got what I wanted.” Jon studies him briefly. “Are you falling asleep?”  
  
“No,” Martin asserts resolutely, although his eyelids feel heavier than usual. “D’you feel like laying down with me?” He pats the spot on the mattress beside him invitingly.  
  
“Hm. I could, if you want.”  
  
Martin rolls his eyes. “Oh, the hesitance. As if you don’t put on your best koala impression the second anybody gets into bed with you.”  
  
“Well I don’t want to _hurt_ you,” Jon huffs, but he’s already taken his glasses off, moving cautiously onto the bed. It takes a bit of maneuvering in order to avoid putting any pressure on Martin’s chest area, but eventually Jon curls up with his head on Martin’s shoulder, clinging to his arm in a possessive way that makes Martin want to kiss him if he were able to turn and do it. Instead, he weaves their fingers together again, content to be this close, at least, feeling Jon’s breath on his neck.  
  
The next thing Martin knows he’s swimming up out of a doze, taking the sort of deep and jarring inhale one does after falling asleep unexpectedly. He realizes he hasn’t said it, and it seems extremely important all of a sudden. “Hey, hey I love you,” he mumbles, insistent, tossing a hand out to feel for his partner, but when he turns, Jon isn’t there. Sat on the mattress instead is Tim, still wearing his jacket along with a warm, amused smile.

“Love you too, Marto. Looks like you’re resting up well.” He leans in to give Martin a quick peck on the lips hello, but Martin gets a hand on his collar and keeps him there for a minute, lingering.

“What’re you doing home?” He asks once Tim pulls away, his voice still a bit thick with sleep.  
  
Tim shrugs easily. “I’m on lunch and I thought I might bring some food home. Wanted to see how you were doing, anyway. Got a weird text about communism.” He flashes a grin, and Martin groans. “Ah, Christ, that was me. I wasn’t even drugged at that point.”  
  
“So I’ve heard.” He’s still smiling, but more subdued now. “Really though, how are you doing?”  
  
Martin blinks a few times and rubs at his face. “Right now? High as a kite, I think.”  
  
Tim laughs. “That’s what we’re aiming for at the moment! Are you hungry, though? I’ve got pad thai.”  
  
“Oh yes please. I feel like I haven’t eaten in… Well, what time is it…” Martin peers at the dresser clock. “Half noon? Ah, I should probably migrate to the living room, shouldn’t I, Dr. Palmer said not to spend the day in bed if I can help it…”  
  
“If you like. Here, do you want to try standing?” Tim offers both his hands, and Martin takes them, scooting laboriously towards the edge of the mattress.  
  
“Guess I could give it a go,” he says, and prepares to be manhandled upright, but to his surprise he’s able to do most of the work on his own. Tim is there to steady him when his legs wobble, and he keeps a hand under Martin’s arm to maintain his balance, but for the most part it isn’t nearly as hard as Martin expected. They shuffle forward together, a few careful steps, and Tim says, “Ah, you’re a natural,” which makes Martin snicker.  
  
Then they come into view of the full-length mirror near the door, the one Tim insisted on when they decorated the place, and Tim says, “Hey, I think some of the swelling has gone down.”  
  
Martin looks for himself. It seems like it has. He keeps looking, really looking, because he’s been avoiding the sight of himself properly shirtless for nearly twenty years and this, finally, is something new and right. He looks until overwhelm clenches up in his gut and he squeezes Tim’s hand, tight.  
  
Tim squeezes back, and Martin knows he understands even if what he actually says is, “Yeah, you could probably do with a wash, but I think we’ll try that later on.”  
  
Martin wheezes out a laugh, grateful for the distraction. “What, do I smell funny or something?”  
  
“Hate to break it to you, hun, but yeah, you’ve got a bit of a musk going on.” Tim pats his arm. “Don’t worry, I think it’s sexy.”  
  
“Oh, shut up and take me to my pad thai.”  
  
Tim does; it’s in the living room, on an actual lap tray for him and everything, next to where Jon is setting out what they like to call their industrial teapot. When he sees Martin he says, “Thank goodness, I was beginning to worry you were down for the count today.”  
  
“I love you,” Martin informs him. “I forgot to say it earlier.”  
  
It makes Jon pause just long enough that Tim starts laughing at him. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, the look on your face… God, you two are precious,” he chuckles.

Jon pins him with his best withering stare, although it doesn’t work nearly as well when he’s blushing. “Oh, come on,” says Tim, still grinning broadly, “don’t you love us too?”  
  
Waving a hand as if to physically dismiss his embarrassment, Jon concedes. “Yes, all right, I adore you both, now sit down before you pass out or something, Martin, you look ghostly pale.” He points at Tim accusingly. “And don’t _you_ have somewhere to be?”  
  
Tim winks at Martin while he helps him lower himself onto the couch before straightening up. “Actually, for the next thirty minutes I’m still all yours, darling,” he says, spreading his arms beatifically.  
  
Jon plants both hands on his hips. “Well, then come and help me get the other tray down. One of you goliaths chucked it up on top of the cabinets and I can’t reach.”  
  
Tim trails after him towards the kitchen with a telltale wise-guy expression on his face. “You know, my dearest, there _has_ been this really incredible invention to assist very short and distressed people such as yourself, it’s called a stepladder and I believe I did purchase one expressly for you-”  
  
“Even _with_ the ladder, the cabinets in this flat are up _ridiculously_ high, I told you when we first looked at it…”  
  
“Oh, hurry it up, you two,” Martin calls after them, unwrapping his chopsticks. “Like I don’t know you’re flirting. At least come snog in here, I can’t reach the remote.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case there's any confusion (although I know if I actually wrote shit good there shouldn't be), Jon is referring to developing ovarian cysts with the "tiny organic bombs" line, which is something I have a wealth of personal experience with, boy howdy. Fun fact though, this fic actually ended up turning into an odd little prequel for a longer WIP that I have in progress right now, so if this sappy domestic drama storyline is something you enjoyed, I can tell you there's more on the way. 
> 
> Once again you can find me on tumblr at my TMA blog [@lostjonscave.](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/) Thank you for reading, and please leave feedback if you can!


End file.
